How Buffy gets her exercise

I dropped Buffy out the window—it was thirteen floors.
“So, you call that walking the dog?” Charlene said.
“Well, what do you suggest?”
“Torture comes to mind.”

But see, it wasn’t. Sure, some dogs might have a heart attack, but not Buffy. She kicks and kicks and she barks her head off all the way down, yapping and snapping at the air...to land soft as a daisy. She’s just a little thing, no harm done, and the doorman lets her on the elevator and pushes the button. In no time at all she’s scratching at my door and I let her in. Thirty minutes later, she’s yapping at the window again, so out she goes.

“I’m knitting her a cape,” I said.
Charlene just looked at me.
“Flying dogs should have capes, don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand why she’s not dead.”
“Well, that’s the invention. See, she chews on this bit that I’ve covered with the last piece of the carpet that used to be in the dining room, and the bit converts her chewing motion to rotary motion, which runs this little pump which fills up this air bag.”
“Ah, so that’s the rubber thing she has around her middle—but what if she doesn’t chew?”
I didn’t answer her, I just looked away—to hide my expression when I thought of that happy day when Buffy didn’t chew.